All The Small Things
by LookToYourLeft
Summary: Because, if you think about it, there is no bigger picture. There's just a lot of small ones, and those are the ones that count. (Sherlock drabbles. Includes Godfather!Sherlock, and other epic fandom ideas. Image isn't mine, I should say.)


**Few little drabbles, and I may do more. Because everybody loves Godfather!Sherlock, don't they?**

* * *

**Deerstalker –**

Deerstalkers. What was the point of them? They were hats with earflaps. _Earflaps_! John said they were for people who… _stalked deers_, presumably. Sherlock didn't care about them at all, what he _did_ cared about was that people seemed to think he stalked deers as well! No! No, he didn't! He wasn't a deer-stalker; he was a_ consulting detective_! Christ, that Death Frisbee would be the death of _him_.

John said that they weren't _actually _earflaps; they were for protecting the heads of the people who stalked deers, while they were… stalking deers. The flaps were for shading the foreheads and necks from the sun, while they were… deer-stalking. John said that it wasn't _actually_ a Death Frisbee, and he didn't know _what _went on in Sherlock's head sometimes, and that it was his turn to buy the milk.

Sherlock realised something.

No matter how dull he was, no matter how dreadfully, painfully _trivial_ he was being, John would say something, and every single time, Sherlock would listen. Delete it soon after, but he'd_ listen_. Because with John…everything that was dull with everyone else… was so much more _interesting._

John said he was an idiot.

And _God,_ he _hated_ that bloody Deerstalker, because he had a horrible feeling that he was becoming one.

* * *

**Birth –**

John was very protective of his wife – always had been – and while Sherlock knew and Mary knew and _everyone knew _that she could cope, John didn't want to hear it.

John thought it was necessary, Mary thought it was sweet but rather exasperating, and Sherlock was just bewildered by the lack of logic in it all. Though, he wasn't _truly_ one to talk. Mary was an ex-assassin; she could watch out for herself, pregnant or not, but _that _didn't stop Sherlock from flying across the flat in a state of mild heart failure, just to help her and the bump stumble down the flight of stairs.

(Already, he was the _best_ godfather _ever_.)

(He'll never admit it, but he almost wished that Mary would never give birth. It's so much _easier_ being a godfather-to-be than an_ actual _godfather, he supposed. He was less likely to hurt the newest Watson that way, like he hurt John, and Molly, and _everyone_. Not as much… baby and more… bump. So yes, if biology allowed it, he'd gladly trap his goddaughter in her mother's safe stomach for the rest of her life, even if it meant having near-coronaries every time Mary lost her footing.)

This protectiveness had increased tenfold, once she had started to show. Not just from John, either – though he was the worse, admittedly. If he'd gotten more defensive than he already was, he'd have been pointing his gun at anyone within ten feet of Mary and their unborn child. But, no, not just John, it was from everybody involved. _Everybody._

After John, Sherlock would grudgingly submit and say that he was the most protective.

Every time Mary showed any signs of discomfort, automatically his mind told him _oh God, oh God, she's going into labour, she's not due for another week, is this bad, it can't be bad, please don't let it be bad, I'm not ready to be godfather, what to do, whattodowhattodo – JOHN! _And then she'd shift her position again on his couch, and sigh contentedly, and all emergency alarms would stop going off.

(It was highly illogical, and extremely irritating. But Sherlock couldn't seem to stop, and _believe_ him when he says he had _tried_. And so it continued. Again, and again, and again. Everyday, every moment of his life, it was always there at the back of his mind palace – a panic attack waiting to happen. It was in these moments that Sherlock forgot the whole trap-baby-in-Mary's-stomach-for-life plan, and tried to will the baby to walk out on it's own, just to stop all this horrible anticipation.)

So, Sherlock was almost as bad as John in that respect.

After him, oddly enough, it would probably be Mycroft.

Now, Sherlock found this as strange as everyone else did, but he could see some twisted reason behind it, at least. Like their mother, Mycroft thought he was never going to have children. Though unlike their mother, he didn't particularly want him to have them. (Sherlock didn't really want children either, as it went, but just try telling his mother that.)

But – like being John's best man was the closest he'd get to being married – being godfather to John's daughter… well, it was the closest he'd get to having one of his own. So, Mycroft seemed to think of John and Mary's child as his… godniece? Well, he seemed to be playing the 'Uncle Mycroft' card early, that was for sure. Ridiculous amounts of security, intimidating black cars showing up to drive Mary around the corner, and having minions help carry home shopping for her was only the tip of the iceberg.

_(Note to self – never let on how grateful you are about that, especially to the King of Cake and Condescending Comments.)_

Then it would be Lestrade, with his quiet concern and little helping hands. Molly was quickly becoming Mary's closest female friend, and she'd always counted to Sherlock, so he trusted her to keep an eye on his unborn goddaughter and her mother. And Mrs Hudson… she was going to be the 'Grandma' in the whole thing; Sherlock could see it coming already.

But, Sherlock's own parents would probably become the other set of grandparents, all things considered. Odd, that.

(Even Not-Anthea was getting involved in it all; she'd actually _looked up _from her blackberry and smiled at Mary and her bump. Christ, was _this_ the effect that babies had on people? If that were so, maybe he'd take this one on a few of the more… female-based cases with him, once she was born. He might be able to get information easier this way. He's kidding, of course. Maybe. A tiny bit. Probably. He'd take her when she was little bit older, at least.)

In fact, everything about this was _odd_. Every single thing. Because, if you'd asked the Sherlock of 2009 if he ever wanted to have a best friend, if he ever wanted to be a best man, if he ever wanted to be a godfather, if he ever wanted to have a _family_… well, he'd have… not been very nice to you. This Sherlock however…

Maybe being domestic wasn't _quite_ so awful. Still _bad_, _obviously_, it went without saying, really, he meant that, but still not…awful.

And when Mary eventually _did _go into labour, while it was just he and she, lounging around in Baker Street while John was at work, he didn't _actually_ have a panic attack. Though, it was a close thing. (Sherlock still thought Mycroft had one, however. The mere thought of his little brother being in charge of the delivery of his godniece, one he could shape into the Future British Government… well, scary thought for a OCD, over-protective, control freak that secretly ran the country.)

And all he could think, beneath all the confusion and panic and '_no, I'm_ not _the father'_, was that things were going to get extremely interesting, extremely fast.

Not anything like the 'interesting' he was used to, either. It wasn't a 'case interesting', or a 'experiment interesting', or a 'Moriarty interesting', or even a 'John interesting', though that was the one it was closest too. No, it was… peculiar. New. Challenging. Baby-Sized. It was a… 'Goddaughter interesting'.

And that was a completely different matter altogether.

* * *

**Heal –**

When John Watson was six years old, he spent most of his time outdoors.

Harriet (or Harry, as she recently declared herself to be) had just turned ten, and was_ far_ more interested in_ dresses _and _dolls_ than she was in _exploring._ He'd always been the more independent, adventurous sibling, and since Harriet was all grown up and a _girl_, he would go out on his own.

His parents never noticed. John could safely say that he could be gone for hours at a time, and only Harriet would give any thought to his whereabouts. And not even _she_ would care enough about it to look for him, at least for a good while. Even as a six-year-old, John realised that he should be more bothered about this than he was, but it was all he'd ever known.

Besides, he was an_ explorer_. He had things to discover, people to save, enemies to defeat. Why waste time worrying about all of_ that _when he had other, _more important_ things to do? He could look after himself, anyway. He didn't need _parents,_ or a _big sister,_ or anyone to take care of him. He was _the hero_; he was the one who took care of everyone else.

And he did. (With Harriet, at least.)

And so – during one of his adventures in the park – when John found a dying sparrow, he took care of it too. A broken little thing, it was. Both wings broken, twitching and… well, it was just about losing the will to live. But John couldn't just leave it for a cat to snap up; he was the _hero_, the_ lifesaver_, he _took care of people_.

He _had_ to help.

But he didn't know _how._

He made a little bed out of leaves for it, he tried to put the wings back into their correct place so it would heal properly, he dug frantically around in the dirt to find some worms for it to eat. _(What do sparrows eat anyway? Oh, I don't know…) _For the first time in his entire life, John was completely aware that there was a life in his hands, a _dying_ life that could disappear at any moment. Unless he fixed this, this little bird would die.

And he didn't know _how._

He didn't know what to do to fix this, didn't have the things needed to fix this, and he hated feeling so… so _ignorant,_ and _helpless_, because he _wanted_ to save this life, he truly did, it was his_ duty_ to save this life but… he didn't know_ how_. And how on earth could John ever be the hero, if he didn't know how?

The sparrow suddenly stopped twitching.

It was dead.

And John knew that if he wanted to stop that from happening again, if he wanted to be _the hero_, he'd have to learn _how._

And so, at six years of age, John made his decision.

_I want to be a doctor._

* * *

**Family –**

Amelia Elizabeth Watson was four years old when she realised that her family wasn't a normal one.

It had all started when she first went to school. She was nervous, of course, but Uncle Sherlock said that she was very clever and she'd do fine. (Well, he didn't say it _quite _like that, but Uncle Lestrade had translated it for her, so she'd gotten the message.) And Uncle Sherlock didn't lie, except for when he was tricking information out of people on a case, and he was her _godfather_, so she had to trust him. He'd never lie to _her._

(Daddy said she wasn't supposed to know about the 'tricking people' thing. He said that Uncle Sherlock was a bad influence. But he wasn't really angry, because he didn't have that _look_ in his eyes. Uncle Sherlock had taught her how to spot that too. Safe to say, it had come in handy.)

So, it was at seven'o'clock sharp that Amelia hopped out of bed, scrambled to the bottom of it, and quickly threw on her newly bought school uniform. Ten minutes later, she was all ready and standing with her coat on by the door. Mummy and Daddy said it wasn't time to leave just yet. That was…_dull._ (Uncle Sherlock said that was her first word. Daddy wasn't very happy with him.)

Once she got to school, she didn't cry, or scream, or beg her parents to stay like all the other kids were doing. Instead, she looked up to her Mama and Daddy and said, "Who'll be picking me up? You know that 'cause this is the first day, it's only 'til lunchtime, right?"

"_We'll_ be picking you up, of course," said Daddy, going down on his hunches to look at her better, her tiny hands tucked up between his own, "Who else would?"

"Well," Amelia reasoned, oblivious to the rhetorical question, "Uncle 'Lock might if he isn't in his... _brain castle_, Uncle Mycroft could 'cause he does sometimes with Aunt Anthe – is it Aunt Charlotte again? I don't know, it changes a lot; sec-ur-i-ty reasons, Uncle Mycroft said. She's mostly Aunt Anthea, though. But, _anyway_, it could be Auntie Molly, Uncle Lestrade –"

"Uncle_ Greg_, Amy," said Mama with grin.

"Hmm…" Amelia considered this for a moment, then wrinkled her nose, "No, Uncle Lestrade's better."

Daddy smiled softly at her, "Ha…but, no. None of them lot will be picking you up. We'll be here for your first day of school. Everyone will be waiting at home for us. So…have fun, okay? Try hard with your schoolwork, make some friends and just… just be yourself. Trust me, if you can thaw the hearts of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, you can charm anyone."

Amelia looked up at her father sceptically, "I… don't think so, Daddy. Besides, I've already _got_ a best friend. I don't need anymore."

Chuckling, Daddy shook his head, "I swear, I've heard your Uncle Sherlock say something like that more than once. Though, he was usually in one of his 'I'm-not-sentimental-but-I'm-going-to-be-anyway' moods. You know the ones; he's always in them when you're around. But… you can never have too many friends; _true _friends, I mean. So…just try, okay?"

"Alright, Daddy…I'll _try_," Amelia conceded. She'd met a few children in the past, but the thing about growing up with a family like hers (_and Moriarty,_ her nightmares whispered), is that you grow up clever. And the other kids… well, you know. She only had one friend, her_ best_ friend, but he wasn't here to be with her now. This was an adventure for her, and her alone.

After biding her parents a warm, proud, hug-filled, yet not-very-tearful farewell, Amelia made her way into the classroom. There were children, whose faces were covered in snot, with big red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks that made it completely apparent they'd all been crying. Why? Their parents weren't abandoning them – half of the_ mums_ had been crying too – and they'd be back to pick them up in a few hours. What was there to be worried about? Didn't they trust them?

The teacher was called Mrs Thomas. She was a young woman, with dyed platinum blonde hair _– insecure about her own looks, feels the need to try and fit in –_ an unnaturally large grin that didn't reach her eyes _– teaching wasn't all that it cracked up to be – _and a patronising simper _– thinks all children of this age group were bumbling idiots still learning to walk._ Amelia disliked her instantly.

(Mrs Thomas had a ring on her fourth finger that had the engraving _11/04/2019_, she noticed with pride. Recently married, then, but an unhappy marriage that she wanted to get out of somehow. Amelia could tell by the lack of care she was treating that ring with; it was covered in smudges, chips and scratches. Maybe she was having an affair? Already? And would she? She didn't seem daring enough to risk it. Well, as Uncle Sherlock would put it, Amelia needed more data.)

(Uncle Sherlock had been teaching Amelia the 'science of deduction' since she was two, and she was getting good. Uncle Mycroft helped, of course, but warned her not to deduce everyone out loud like Uncle Sherlock did. He told her it was not the proper thing to do. And Amelia believed him, because though Uncle Mycroft lied a lot, he'd never lie to _her._ She trusted him. Oh, _and_ it was obvious to Amelia that Uncle Sherlock's way of doing things certainly weren't the easiest way to get things done. And that.)

"Okay children," Mrs Thomas clapped her hands together once, making Amelia roll her eyes like Uncle Mycroft did when Uncle Sherlock was acting particularly strange, and let them fall into her lap, "Now, as this is your first time at school, I'm sure you're all going to be feeling very nervous. I know a lot of you don't want to come here, but trust me when I say that school is a _good_ thing."

Amelia glanced around. The other children standing around her were listening with rapped attention, some of them still sniffling. They weren't acting _anything_ like her best friend, but she'd promised Daddy that she'd try to make more (maybe a girl one, because as her best friend was a boy, she didn't have many girl ones), and these shaking, sobbing children were going to be her… friends?

(Okay…)

(She didn't have any girl ones _at all_, actually…)

"You'll learn the alphabet –" Amelia had known that since she was one-and-a-half, "– how to count –" She already knew up to a thousand and could deduce the rest, " – and, most importantly, you'll have fun!" Was this woman being serious? Amelia was taught the alphabet in terms of the elements; _surely_ Mrs Thomas had been informed of this?

Mrs Thomas was still talking, but Amelia stubbornly blocked it all out. She had better things to think about than what a dull, fake, horrible _cheater_ (because she _was_ cheating, Amelia could tell by the look she'd exchanged with the unmarried, handsome teaching assistant from next door) had to say. Like _Doctor Who_, or what Uncle Lestrade meant by the word 'Shit'. He'd panicked when he'd found out she'd heard it, so it _must_ be interesting. Maybe she'd ask Nanny Hudson; she'd know what it meant.

Unfortunately, the last line of Mrs Thomas' tragically boring monologue caught up with Amelia, as she finally tuned in to hear, "…Now, we're all going to get to know each other by forming a circle, and going around it. We'll all say our name, and an interesting fact about ourselves. Alright?"

A quiet murmur of 'Yes, Mrs Thomas' echoed throughout the room, as all the new students obediently obeyed her command. Mrs Thomas settled down on her knees, over-acting a poor performance of thinking before saying, "Okay, I think I've got my fact. I'll start. My name is Mrs Thomas and I –" _Am emotionally unstable?_ " – love strawberry ice-cream!" _Oh. Well, that works too, I suppose…_

One by one, the children all choked out a name and a fact. Horribly trivial facts like 'My favourite colour is blue' and 'I love Spiderman', but facts all the same. And it did get Amelia thinking. Every now and then, a kid would come out with something like 'And my Mummy's a nurse' or 'And my Dad's a really good builder', and Amelia would consider something she hadn't really thought about before.

Her family… it wasn't what people would call_ normal_, was it?

A normal family would be all related, all living together, all with jobs that one could name. Hers… wasn't. She'd only just thought of that right now, and it had never been a problem before, and it never would but…it was…new. Because, now she had thought about it…

Her Daddy was an Army-Captain and Doctor that had a secret gun; her Mama was an ex-assassin (Amelia wasn't meant to know this) and had been called Mary for only a decade or so. Her Godfather, Uncle Sherlock, was a 'high-functioning sociopath' with boredom tendencies, and was the only 'consulting detective' in the world.

Her Uncle Lestrade was a detective inspector who had broken more laws than he could count (all for Uncle Sherlock and the good of London, of course); her Uncle Mycroft had a 'minor position in British Government', which meant he controlled it all; her Aunt Molly was a sweet, kind-hearted little lady who chopped up dead bodies for a living, and her Aunt Anthea was a woman addicted to her phone, and could start a war with it, along with having the Queen on speed-dial.

Her Grandma Holmes was an old, gossipy mathematical genius; her Grandpa Holmes was trying to teach her martial arts; her Nanny Hudson (didn't know that Amelia knew this) had been part of a drug cartel, though 'only did the typing'. Everything about her strange family was… strange. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

(Most of the time. It made life interesting, anyway.)

But now it was her turn to say her name and fact, and _God_, what should she _say_? Daddy told her to try and make friends, but she didn't know _how_. Her best friend didn't count. She couldn't say anything about her families' jobs, because half of them were something people weren't supposed to know about. And they were all _looking_ at her, and _what should she say_? Anything, brain, give her something to say! Something that wasn't a secret, something, _anything_…

"My best friend is Prince George!"

…Laughter.

Well, it was the truth, but it didn't make it hurt any less.


End file.
